Taking a Gamble
by skinflint
Summary: Racetrack Higgins explains a few things about his bad habit. An inner-monologue of sorts, without much of a plot. Feedback appreciated! [Rated PG-13 for language]


Title: Taking a Gamble

Author: Skinflint (skinflint_1899@yahoo.com)

Rating: PG-13

Description: Racetrack Higgins explains some things about his bad habit.

Notes: This is pretty much a pwp (plot? what plot?) fic. I wanted to experiment with Racetrack's inner-self, to see if I could pull him off all right. Feedback would be much appreciated; I need to know if ya'll think I've got a good grasp on the character or not. Thanks! :)

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Racetrack or most of the characters mentioned (however briefly) in this story. The lack of originality and clever wit for this disclaimer is, I assure you, entirely mine.

***

It's all in the thrill, y'know. Those few precious moments when your mind's a race, faster than the actual one and you're thinking _holy shit I think this is it she's gonna win THIS IS IT and then she actually *does* win and you're on your feet, screaming and hugging the person next to you and feeling like you're on top of the world!_

That pretty much never happens (to me, at least). And of course, after a loss, there's nothing but the most intense kind of deflation: one more hope crushed flat, right in front of your very eyes. 

Still, you keep on pushing. Any diehard gambler knows that once you feel the excitement, that *power* of winning, there's no going back. You never know when life's gonna throw you an ace in the hole, y'know? So you better just wait for it and hope you don't get too many bad pennies along the way.

Except...I wasn't always like this. There was a time when gambling was nothing but a hobby to me. A way to pass the time, right? Challenge the boys to a game, laugh at Mush's poor excuse for a poker face (it's almost too easy, wipin' Mush out of all he has. Lousiest card player in New York, I swear on my own mama's grave), maybe end up a few cents richer. No big deal. 

And hawking headlines at the Track started off innocent, too; it wasn't until I started paying attention to the races that it became an obsession. Listening in on the conversations, taking notice of the stronger, more consistent horses...it all became a second nature for me. You gotta pay attention if ya wanna make any dough, right? Gotta be sharp.

I almost pissed myself the first time I placed a real bet on a horse. I was nervous that I'd be out of all my money and have to sleep in a doorway or somthin', y'know? But I won. Yeah, kids, I won. I'd been keeping an eye out for Buttercup, watching her patterns and keeping tabs on her game. My slice of the winnings was pretty small stuff, but it was still something. Not everyone wins on his first bet, y'know.

From that day on, every free moment I had was spent at the Track. Earned myself a nickname that way. Not the most respectable of titles, sure, but "Racetrack" sure beats "Snoddy" or even "Spot" in the name game. Yeah, you heard me right; I'd rather be named after a not-so-respectable pastime than be known for an over-active nasal allergy or for keeping company with some *dog.* Yeah, the leader of Brooklyn was named after a stray dog, kids (don't tell him I told ya that, though, alright? I wanna live to see the age of twenty-one, if you don't mind). A little Spaniel mutt with a brown spot over his left eye. Aww. Spot loved that damn dog, though. Shoulda seen him when the poor mutt died. Broken up for weeks. 

But that was before he became leader.

My Pop was a gambler, too. I think it's in my blood. He used to have games at our place all the time. Before he croaked, that is. Owed about a hundred people money, too.

But I'll never be like that. The only guys I owe anything to are Jack, Weasel, Snitch, Mr. Hartsman and Kloppman. Oh, and Blink an' Boots. Not to mention Pitch and Skinflint over in Brooklyn. That's it, though, and just between you and me? I ain't payin' Weasel back. Not anytime soon, anyway.

The point is, a gambler never quits. And that ain't such a bad thing. Remember the strike? I mean, who could forget it, right? We pushed on, despite all the complications. Without Jack Kelly we never woulda gotten as far as we did, and sure I had second thoughts on the whole thing, but we continued forward. Without the automatic support of Spot and his boys in Brooklyn. Without having any real clue how everything would all end up. We took a gamble, and we came out on top.

And I loved every minute of it. *Because* of that risk. Are we winning? Or losing? Am I gonna get hurt? Are my buddies gonna make it out okay?  Are we setting ourselves up for a bad dump? Are Jack and David gonna pull us through? They did. *We* did.

So who's to say that my gambling is an unhealthy addiction? I say it's a way of life. Because if you don't take risks, you don't get anywhere. 

And if I got an ace up my sleeve, I sure as hell ain't gonna waste it. And *that* is the only way to live, kids.

Here's to you, Pop.

***

Like it? Hate it? Drawing a blank? Let me know! Please?

Oh, and to all those who reviewed my other fic, _Refuge: thanks so much! You're the ones that got me to try my hand at another _Newsies _fanfic. Love to you all. :)_


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